


Light

by edy



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Paranoia, Past Suicide Attempt, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 18:04:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6968101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edy/pseuds/edy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He misses Josh's bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light

**Author's Note:**

> inspiration: "the judge", "not today", "goner", and ["house of gold"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xETC86u7eJo) by twenty one pilots
> 
> translation into русский available: [light](https://ficbook.net/readfic/4992823) by [ingefaerel](https://ficbook.net/authors/448174)

It's boring to start with the weather, but he starts with the weather.

He isn't outside, though he doesn't need to be a meteorologist to know it's below freezing. Frost clings to the glass of the singular window in his room. It fractures, almost like a spider web, can only be seen if the curtains are drawn back. Drawing back the curtains isn't allowed. Touching the curtains isn't allowed. He's fiddling with the edge of the curtain, peering at the space between, peering at the spider-web fracture. There is no snow on the ground, not even at the tops of the hills that stretch and roll for miles. The clouds overhead are puffy, the sky gray, and it promises snow, yet snow might not come.

He draws the curtain, sits in the middle of the room again.

This room is bare, void of any furniture—and even color. With walls white and cracked, much like porcelain and not spider webs, he takes to peeling and scratching at the paint with a thumbnail. It gets underneath his nails most days, and it causes his nail beds to bleed most days. But most days, it's something to do, something to create. In the corner of the room, he has carved a cat with only index finger and thumb as his tools. It looks incredibly childish and incredibly impressive.

While the walls are white, the floor is hardwood. Three boards have come up the past few days. He's taken to sticking his hand within them and groping and feeling, like he's reading Braille. As of yet, he hasn't been caught, and he hasn't found anything. The wood makes his knees red and his elbows pink. He lies on the floor and stares at the ceiling. The ceiling is white. The walls are white.

He wants to open the curtains. He sits in the middle of the room again.

There is a video camera set in front of him, propped atop a crate. It seems familiar, but he can't place where he would have come in contact with it. He knows how to work it, although he blames that on reflex, on muscle memory. He's done this for days, maybe even months. He was shown how to turn it on, how to record, how to replay and edit only once. He isn't allowed to edit. He isn't allowed to rewind, to fast forward, to replay and replay and replay.

It's boring to start with the weather, but he starts with the weather.

"Sunny, I think." He remembers to smile. It's good that he smiles. The door knob turns, the door creaking open seconds later. He glances over, doesn't make eye contact, goes back to the camera. "I can't wait to, to… to feel the sun on my skin. I forgot what that felt like."

"Do you really think it's sunny?" The door isn't all the way open. He wouldn't call it cracked either, just… not completely open.

"It must be sunny. I'm wearing shorts and a t-shirt. You gave them to me."

"The window… the curtains…"

His heart leaps in his chest, goes _thump-thump-thump_. Another glance, first at the door, then at the curtains in question. He fears he might have disturbed them. He _had_ disturbed them. He hopes it isn't obvious. It doesn't look obvious. He was careful, he was careful.

"What about them?"

"Can't you tell by the light passing through them? The filter? The way it reflects on the walls?"

"Oh." He swipes his tongue over his lips. "I'm sorry…" And he drifts, licking his lips again. It's on the tip of his tongue.

"Go on." The doorjamb groans when weight is added. "What else?"

He sticks his fingers in his mouth, chewing on his nails in thought. "My name is Josh."

"No."

" _Your_ name is Josh. My name is… William."

"No."

"That's yours, too." He breaks, he tears. "Tyler." An epiphany, coursing through him at top speed, never-ending—"My name is Tyler. And your name is Josh."

Josh smiles.

*

It's boring to start with the weather, but he starts with the weather.

It's an icebreaker of sorts, something for him to talk about while his stomach settles and his chest unwinds. Minutes can pass before this happens. By this time, Josh has walked in, has started watching him. It helps. It doesn't help. It helps.

"My name is Tyler," he says, "and despite what… I'm wearing, it is definitely not sunny out."

*

There is a naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. It blinds him as soon as it turns on, then his eyes adjust, and he isn't blind anymore. Still he rubs his knuckles into his eyes until he stops seeing colors every time he closes them.

Since there is one light bulb in the room, there is an absence of a ceiling fan. It's winter, or so he has been told, and the ceiling fan isn't needed. When it turns warm, and he thinks he will be here when it turns warm, he will need to draw back the curtains and open the window. Maybe he'll be allowed to do that by then.

He doesn't hold his breath.

He stays in the room for hours at a time, sometimes for days. The door isn't locked, he can leave anytime he wants, but that isn't allowed. It doesn't need to be said. He knows it isn't allowed.

In the middle of the night, he switches on the camera and whispers, hands to his mouth, fingers wet and bleeding. "I know he watches these," he says. "I'm being watched. I need outta here. I need outta here."

He sleeps and wakes to the door opening. He lies there, curled in a ball, paint chips under his nails, listening, listening, listening to buttons being pressed, weight being shifted from foot to foot, everything and nothing at all. In the morning, the camera is exactly where it was the night before. He isn't allowed to check the footage, isn't allowed to play it back. It doesn't need to be said. He knows it isn't allowed.

*

This bed is comfortable. The white sheet over his body is thin and offers no warmth, but it is comfortable. He wakes for the first time in this bed, and wishes for the sleep he goes into that night to be his last. It isn't his last. He has many more nights after that.

But on that morning, he wants to go back to sleep and never wake up. His skin is scratched, ruined, stripped. He's covered in plaster and butterfly bandages. He needs to be at a hospital, but he's in a comfortable bed with a thin sheet and no body heat to his name. He needs to be at a hospital, but he has Josh.

Josh walks into the room and sits on the bed with him from time to time. He doesn't understand the passage of time in this house. It runs together, connected by white walls with splinters and windows with fissures. The curtains in this bedroom are drawn back, letting in light, snow light, beautiful light, light his eyes love.

Josh walks into the room and sits on the bed with him from time to time. Josh is battered, too, a bruised cheekbone and a busted lip. He brings his lip between his teeth often, suckling on it as if it were a pacifier. It isn't attractive, is remotely absurd, but it is a nervous tick, a habit, and it will no doubt ensure his lip will not heal any time soon.

Josh walks into the room and sits on the bed with him from time to time. He sits above the covers, his hands working underneath the covers. He's touching, feeling. "Tyler," he's saying, groping now. "Please talk to me."

"Don't touch me," Tyler says, and Josh doesn't. "Where am I?"

"Home."

"This doesn't feel like home."

Josh shakes his head. "Can I touch you now?"

"Yes."

And Josh holds his hand.

*

Josh says it's Christmas morning. "You've been dying for one of these," he says, opening Tyler's present for him. It's a camera, of course it is. "Just like your old one, yeah? I'm sorry for… breaking your last one."

Tyler doesn't remember. "It's okay."

"So, what'd you get me?"

Tyler blinks. He raises his hand, and Josh smacks it, lacing their fingers together and laughing. "Thanks, man."

*

Josh says it's Christmas morning. It's snowing outside. It stops that night. It melts the next day.

Josh says it's a week after Christmas. It's snowing outside. It doesn't stop. It doesn't melt.

Josh says it's New Year's Eve. It's snowing outside. It stops in the morning. It melts two days later.

Josh says, Josh says, Josh says.

*

"Can I see what you're doing?" Josh asks, and Tyler says, "No," and Josh asks, "Why not?", and Tyler says, "No. Stop asking."

It doesn't stop Josh from going into his room, taking the camera, and watching, watching, listening, listening, listening.

Josh is quiet.

*

Tyler is quiet.

Josh is inspecting his wounds, running fingertips along scabs, along scars, and he says, "I have a rubber band, if you want one."

Tyler narrows his eyes. "Why would I want one when I have…?" His fingers curl, and he stares at his wrist, at the three lines inked. And he remembers, and he doesn't remember, and he remembers.

Josh is smiling. "You're right. My bad."

*

Something happened. Nobody talks about it.

*

The fractures are back. He taps the glass, watches it shake. If it comes to it, Tyler thinks he might be able to pound and pound and pound, and the glass will shatter, and he will escape. Escape is a strong word. He is weak, a small bird unable to fly. His mother left the nest ages ago. She's waiting for him. Come home, she might say, come home, my baby boy, but Tyler is weak, unable to fly, and he has Josh.

He draws the curtain, sits in the middle of the room again.

It's boring to start with the weather, but he starts with the weather.

"Soon," he says, "I think the sun will rise."

*

The rest of the house is not as familiar as his empty room. He goes from room to room with Josh watching him. Josh is in the kitchen because, from the kitchen, every room can be seen. Tyler's room is big to him, but the house is small.

A TV set is in the room Tyler deems as the living room. It is never on, and there is not much living to be had in the living room. The walls are white in here, too, as they are throughout the rest of the house. They aren't nearly as cracked as the room he frequents. And on the ceiling, a fan sets. It is not warm. It is not on. A recliner and a couch tilt toward the TV, but since the TV is never on, Tyler thinks they need to be pointed elsewhere. He tries moving them one evening as Josh watches from the kitchen. His feet slide across the hardwood floor, and Josh laughs and tells him to stop, to come into the kitchen with him. "Eat something, will you?"

Tyler eats. He isn't poisoned, not that Josh is capable of such a thing. Josh's hands are soft, and the fingers twitch at the sight of Tyler. Those hands are made for other things, and poisoning Tyler is not one of them.

The first room down the hall is Josh's, or that's what Tyler labels it. The comfortable bed is pushed off to the corner, beneath a window with the curtains drawn. More clothes are piled onto the bed now, not just the lone sheet. Tyler misses the sheet. The floor is cold, cramped, too there and not there enough. Josh invites him back to his room every night. Tyler refuses. It's instinctive, something almost like a reflex, like a muscle memory. It comes as easy as pushing buttons on his video camera. Josh asks, "Do you want to sleep with me tonight?", and without a thought, without hesitation, Tyler says, "No. Stop asking." Josh still asks. Tyler doesn't know why.

The second room down the hall is a bathroom. Tyler cuts himself shaving one day. Josh holds a towel to his neck for hours, even though it isn't needed. Tyler looks into Josh's eyes and sees the want to be close, the urge to touch, and he lets Josh touch him.

In between the second room and the third room is a closet. It's tiny. Tyler hasn't opened it to look inside.

Beside the closet is a laundry room. It's tiny, too. Tyler likes sitting on the washer and looking out the small window. There's no curtain over this window. He can look all he likes.

The fourth, and last, room down the hall is Tyler's room. It's not off to the side; it's straight ahead. The hall ends in his room. He is the end. He is the end.

This house is bare. This home is bare. Nobody talks about it.

*

"Eat something, will you?" says Josh, because he's in the kitchen, and Tyler is trying to move the furniture. Tyler quits, eats something, and isn't poisoned. He doesn't actually think he's going to be poisoned. Thoughts like this are intrusive and second nature. _This is going to poison me_ , as he's eating; _this is going to tip over and break my neck_ , as he's shoving furniture; _this is going to electrocute me if I do something wrong_ , as he's recording himself; _this is going to cut open my wrist and sever a vein and give me tetanus_ , as he's gazing out the window; _this is going to become my grave_ , as he stares at Josh's bed. He can't make it stop. He wants it to stop.

"Eat something, will you?" says Josh, because he's in the kitchen, and Tyler is trying to move the furniture. "Come in here, and eat something." And Tyler comes in there, and Josh feeds him. Tyler tries to grab for the fork, but Josh is holding it already. He doesn't let Tyler have it. He raises his hand, above Tyler's head, and Tyler gives up, gives in. Josh feeds him mashed potatoes, and Tyler isn't poisoned.

*

Tyler is on the counter, swinging his legs, when Josh kisses him. Josh smells like dish soap and tastes like Red Bull. His hands are sudsy, damp from the water in the kitchen sink. It gets on Tyler's cheeks, gets in Tyler's hair, gets on Tyler's clothes, gets in Tyler's ears. Josh's lips are soft, like his hands, like his hair. His lip isn't busted anymore. It's healed, been healed for days, maybe weeks, maybe months. He kisses Tyler, and Tyler fidgets and quakes and says, "Stop, stop, stop."

And Josh stops. And Josh stares at Tyler, sudsy hands on Tyler's neck, anchoring him in place, anchoring himself in place. "Oh," Josh sighs. "I thought… I don't know what I thought."

"Don't touch me."

And Josh removes his hands, ducks them back into the kitchen sink, back into the water, rinsing off the suds. "I guess… I thought you would… I thought it'd help you remember."

"Remember what?"

Josh shakes his head. "Can I touch you now?"

"No."

And Tyler leaves the room.

*

It's dark in his room. His camera is the only light. He leans in. "I need outta here," he says. "He's watching me. He kissed me. He kissed me. Help me, help me, my head hurts, _my head hurts_."

It's dark in his room. His camera is the only light. He turns it off. He needs out of here. He's being watched. He's been kissed. He's been kissed. Someone help him, someone help him, his head hurts, _his head hurts_.

It's dark in his room. It's dark in the hallway. The door knob burns his hand, yet he still turns it. He expects his skin to redden and blister. It stays unchanged. He ventures down the hallway, one step at a time, one more throb of his head, one more beat of his heart. He's going to pass the closet, going to pass the laundry room, going to pass the bathroom, going to turn left and go into Josh's room. He's going to tell Josh he wants out, he needs help, help him, please, Josh, _Josh_.

At the door, Tyler stops, hears something soft, hears something painful. At the door, Tyler realizes it isn't closed, hears the echo from inside. He hears Josh, he hears himself, he hears the world stop and turn in reverse.

So, he knocks.

And the door inches forward.

Josh is sleeping, cheek pressed against a pillow, his hair stuck up, his lips parted. He snores. Tyler walks over, no socks, no pants, only shorts and a t-shirt.

"Josh," he says, and he is an alarm. Josh wakes, arching his back like a cat, scratching his head and blinking five times. "Josh," Tyler says, and he is a second alarm. Josh sits up, the blankets falling off him, the white sheet underneath him. Tyler stares at that sheet, feels himself turn inside out. "Josh," Tyler says, and he loses his voice. His eyes are wet. Everything is blurry.

"What is it, Tyler?" Josh is a podium. Tyler is a broken tire swing. "Is it your—?"

"You can touch me now," Tyler whispers, and reaches out. And Josh grabs his hand, holds it, and he touches Tyler. Tyler is freezing. Tyler is hot. Tyler is nothing. And Josh is everything.

*

It's boring to start with the weather, but he starts with the weather.

"The ceiling fans have been turned on," he says.

"Soon," he says. "Soon."

*

The cat in the corner of the room is obese. Four boards have come undone from the hardwood floor. The fourth board has something under it. It's a phone, headphones and charger wrapped around it. It's cold, the screen cracked at the bottom. It's dead, too. "Wall outlet," he says, and sticks the charger into the one underneath the window. He waits.

*

"Pen and paper," Josh says, "if you want to… write anything down."

"No."

Tyler has his camera. He doesn't need pen and paper.

"What about…? Okay, I'm going to feel pretty ridiculous if you say no, but… do you want a piano?"

"No."

"Ukulele?"

"No."

Tyler has his camera. He doesn't need a piano. He doesn't need a ukulele.

*

The phone is dead. It doesn't work at all. Tyler smashes it against the floor, brings up another floor board, knocks it back into place. He's a hammer, slamming, destroying.

Josh is in the room now, taking the phone, tossing it, taking Tyler, holding Tyler, holding on to Tyler. "Hey, hey, hey." Tyler is sand. He crumbles, falls apart, settles on the floor, and lets Josh handle him. "Where did you find that?" Josh looks at the phone. He presses his palm to Tyler's forehead.

"I don't remember," says Tyler, and somehow, Josh believes him.

*

"Pen and paper," Josh tries again, "if you want to… write anything down."

"No," Tyler says, quickly. "Ukulele," he says. "Please."

Josh has one. Tyler doesn't ask him where he got it. From a store, he might say. From a box, he might say. It used to be yours, he might say. Tyler doesn't ask him where he got it. He holds it in his hands, fumbling briefly. Josh watches on, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He's holding his breath. He's waiting for something to happen. He's waiting for nothing to happen.

It's that night when Tyler wakes to the sound of an owl cooing from over the hills, when he wakes and grabs the instrument, when he remembers how to hold it, when he remembers how to strum and sing and sing and sing.

It's that night when he sees Josh walk into the room and stoop over the camera. He messes with a few buttons, smiles at Tyler, flashes a thumbs up, and then leaves him. Tyler wonders why Josh didn't hide his tinkering. Maybe he never truly tried to hide it from Tyler. Tyler always feigned sleep. He never rolled over and stared at Josh. He didn't know what would happen. Go back to sleep, Josh might say. You're dreaming, Josh might say. I know what happened and I know you know what happened, Josh might say.

Tyler wakes often in the middle of the night and wakes Josh with his music. Tyler hears Josh roam around the house, bare feet slapping against the hardwood as he goes about his morning routine earlier than most.

And Tyler sings. And Josh checks the camera. And Josh smiles and leaves him.

*

Tyler doesn't see the phone again. The floor boards don't come up anymore. The cat in the corner is gone. Everything is pristine, and everything is a façade.

*

It's boring to start with the weather, but he starts with the weather.

"Today," he says.

"It it's not today, then it's never," he says.

*

It's boring to start with the weather, but he starts with the weather.

It's sunny. The curtains are warm to the touch. He touches them, presses his face to the fabric, and breathes. The spider web is still there. It's branched off more now, coming up to the top of the window as if it were a hand rising from its grave. Its grave is weak, its grave is shaking, its grave is gone.

He tears down the curtains, yanking, pulling, the rod coming down with it. It clatters against the floor, drops on his foot. While it doesn't hurt, not initially, it does take him by surprise, has to clamp a hand to his mouth to avoid screeching. Nobody walks into the room. This takes him by surprise, as well. He expects a crowd to swarm the room, expects people in white to catch him, to hold him, to shake and shake and shake him. He expects Josh to stand by the doorway, to lean his weight on the doorjamb, to ask, "Are you okay?" He expects Josh to stare at him, arms over his chest, his head tilted to the side. He expects Josh, and Josh doesn't come. The camera atop the crate is the only thing in the room. It's recording, recording, recording. It's aimed at the wall, having captured him standing and walking off screen. It'll hear the curtains drop. It'll hear the glass break. It'll hear everything and see nothing. There's no choice.

Tyler pushes his fist through the window. It's gone.

Tyler jumps, hoists himself over the edge of the sill. It's gone.

Tyler falls, falls, falls. He's gone.

*

He misses Josh's bed.

*

Tyler runs.

He's in a field, stomping on flowers and smelling the flowers and looking at the flowers. The hills go on for miles. He runs and doesn't stop running. He forgets what hardwood feels like beneath his toes. The hills are grassy, recently cut, and it stains his skin green and his heart red. It's warm out here, the sun low in the sky. Tyler passes trees, rocks, birds. He hears the birds and wonders if he'll be able to fly again. He's free. He's gone. He's gone.

Tyler runs.

*

Tyler runs. And Tyler stops.

He's a broken tire swing. A tire rolls past like tumbleweeds. Where is it going? He wants to ask it, but he sees where it's going and where it's been. The tire is slashed. It's rolling from a car. The car is turned on its side, still turning, resting on its top. There is someone inside. There is no one inside.

Tyler forgets how to breathe.

Tyler runs.

*

Josh kisses him every morning and every night. He kisses him every chance he gets. Josh hugs him, picking him off the ground and twirling them around, around, around. Josh laughs. Josh laughs.

*

Tyler runs. He doesn't go far.

He's on his knees, his hands to his face, his skin warm from the sun, the sun warming his skin. There's a slight breeze rustling the trees. It's almost like music. Tyler misses music. He misses color. He misses the smell of dish soap and the taste of Red Bull. He misses wearing shoes with laces. He misses long pants and strings and the way his lungs ached from screaming at the peak. He even misses flicking rubber bands into his wrist, but he doesn't do that anymore. He doesn't do that anymore.

Tyler should have stayed inside the house.

*

Josh finds him with a puddle of blood. Josh doesn't deserve this.

Josh finds him with a bouquet of flowers. They're wilting already in his hands. Josh doesn't deserve this.

"I'll help you," Josh says both times. He helps him into a car, into the house, and Tyler is washed in different ways.

Tyler doesn't remember, but he has Josh. Josh is behind him, perched on the edge of the bathtub, a washcloth in his hand. Tyler's back is to Josh, arms around his legs, eyes closing, eyes opening. "I didn't want you to leave," Josh says, "until you remembered." He runs the washcloth down Tyler's spine. "Do you remember?"

"No," Tyler says.

"Oh," Josh says. He presses his palm to the top of Tyler's head, fingers curling and uncurling, scratching his scalp. Tyler closes his eyes. "Stay in here for a while."

Tyler hums. He stays in the tub for an hour. Josh dries him off, better than he dries himself off. He lays Tyler onto his bed, no clothes, and pulls the blankets up to his chin. "Stay in here for a while."

Tyler hums. He stays in the bed for twelve hours.

*

Josh watches the videotapes. He doesn't say anything.

*

"Do you remember now?" Josh asks. He's more persistent every day.

"No," Tyler says. He's getting better at lying.

"Do you remember the hospital? The car?"

"No."

"Do you remember why?"

"Yes."

Josh stares at him.

"You don't deserve this."

Josh shakes his head. "Can I touch you now?"

"Yes."

Josh holds his hand. "Do you remember… before?"

"No."

*

It's in the tapes. It's in his eyes.

Tyler whispers to the camera, "I don't think this was my idea. I don't think this is what I wanted."

Tyler whispers, "He kissed me, and I kissed him."

Tyler whispers, "I remember him."

*

The ceiling fans continue to spin. Josh turns on the television in the living room. Tyler's head doesn't hurt anymore.

*

They sit on the front porch. The sun is setting, turning the house yellow and pleasant. It's a welcoming sight. The exterior matches the interior. Tyler thinks he might be able to fly soon.

"This place was supposed to be… safe, for you. Did you feel safe, at least?" Josh is one foot away from Tyler, digging the heels of his feet into the step below them. "I tried to keep you safe."

Tyler cranes back his neck, turns his face to the sun. It's setting. It's warm. "Yes."

"I'll always be there for you."

"Thanks, man."

Josh slides closer to him. Their hands touch, their pinkies cross. "Do you want to tell me anything?"

It's boring to start with the weather, but he starts with the weather.


End file.
